


Nine Hundred Years of Poetry

by flawedamythyst



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Demisexual Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Happy Ending, Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani is an Incurable Romantic, M/M, Miscommunication, Mutual Pining, Not Actually Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-06
Updated: 2020-10-06
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:09:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26864926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flawedamythyst/pseuds/flawedamythyst
Summary: “They’re not together. Not like that.”There was a quiet pause, then Nile snorted. “Bullshit,” she said. “Come on, you’re having me on, right?”“I’m afraid not,” said Booker, stopping in front of the wine racks and turning to look at her. “They are just very close friends.”Nicky and Joe never actually managed to get together and so have spent 900 years pining over each other and coming up with angsty poetry. Booker is 100% done.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 116
Kudos: 800





	Nine Hundred Years of Poetry

Booker didn’t realise he’d been waiting for it until it happened.

“So,” asked Nile, sitting back after emptying her plate on their first meal together after their family had grown to five. She glanced over at where Nicky and Joe were still staring at each other after explaining their history, with the soppily heartfelt smiles that Booker had got so very sick of seeing. “You guys have really been toge-”

That was what Booker had been subconsciously waiting for. He reacted immediately, grabbing her arm and squeezing tightly. “I think we need more wine,” he announced, cutting her off. “Come, Nile, let me show you the cellar.”

“Uh,” she said, but he didn’t give her a choice, dragging her up and out of the room while Joe and Nicky blinked after them, confused, and Andy hid a too-knowing smile. Back in the day, she’d been the one dragging Booker off to have this quiet talk.

He waited until they were out of earshot before letting go of Nile’s arm. “You can’t ask that,” he said as she rubbed at it, giving him a scowl that he ignored, because any hurt he’d caused would already have healed. “Don’t ever ask about Joe and Nicky being together.”

“What?” asked Nile. “Why not? Are they, like, seriously closeted or something?”

“No,” said Booker, leading her down the narrow stairs to the cellar. “They’re not together. Not like that.”

There was a quiet pause, then Nile snorted. “Bullshit,” she said. “Come on, you’re having me on, right?”

“I’m afraid not,” said Booker, stopping in front of the wine racks and turning to look at her. “They are just very close friends.”

Nile stared at him. “No way. The way they look at each other, there’s no way. And when I dreamed of you all, they were sleeping together, all cuddled up.”

Booker nodded. “Yes, they sleep that way every night,” he said. “It doesn’t mean the same to them as it would mean to two modern men. Sharing beds was extremely common for many centuries, even into my time. They just got into the habit, and never saw the point in changing it.”

Nile still did not look convinced, which was fair because Booker hadn’t been either when Andy had had a rather more brusque version of this talk with him.

“Nicky called Joe the other half of his soul. ‘The other half of my soul was of the people I’d been taught to hate’,” she quoted. “How the hell is that just being friends?”

“They call each other all kinds of things that would only be meant romantically these days,” said Booker. “But when they say such things about each other, they just mean that they are partners, brothers. Nicky was a knight during the age of Chivalry, remember, back when men had deep warrior bonds with each other and spoke to each other with all kinds of flowery language. There was even a form of platonic marriage between two sworn friends.”

Nile considered that, then shook her head. “I thought that was all just a cover for medieval dudes getting to bang each other without pissing anyone off?”

Booker shrugged. “Some of it might have been,” he said. “It’s not for Nicky and Joe. They are as close as any two people I have ever known, but they don’t fuck, or even kiss beyond a peck on the cheek or forehead.”

Nile frowned as she thought about that and Booker turned back to the wine rack as she did so, grabbing a bottle of wine for them to take upstairs.

“Okay,” she said, slowly. “Say I believe you're not just winding me up because I’m the new kid. Why the hell did you drag me away like that and not let them explain that to me themselves?”

Booker let out a long sigh, running his hand over the bottle of wine to wipe the dust away. “Because while Nicky is content to have Joe as his brother, Joe is not,” he said. “He’s been in love with Nicky for 900 years, without hope of reciprocation, and without Nicky knowing. It hurts him to have to deny that he feels anything more than a fraternal bond with Nicky, and more to hear Nicky laugh away the idea of being in love with him.”

That made Nile go quiet again. Booker waited her out, watching the expression on her face. She clearly thought things through before having a reaction to them, which felt like a trait they could do with more of on the team.

“That’s fucked up,” she announced in the end.

Booker laughed tiredly. He rather liked his new sister. 

He carefully didn’t think about what might happen to her in just a few hours, when his deal with Copley and Merrick came due. If he’d known he’d be involving someone else in this mess, someone new and still reeling from what it meant to be immortal, he might have thought again about it.

He considered living another decade, trapped with Nicky and Joe’s brotherly warrior bond and Andy’s self-sufficient weariness, and felt the clawing sense of desperation in his chest that he had got all too used to, and reflected that he also might not have.

“Yes,” he said. “I’m afraid there are many things about this immortal life that are fucked up.”

He started back up the stairs, then hesitated and looked back at Nile. “Joe is not as silent on the subject when Nicky is not around,” he said. “Please, let me give you a warning. If you ever get drunk with him alone, make sure you have a distraction for him, or you will be treated to every lovelorn poem that a medieval romantic has spent 900 years composing.”

“Jesus,” muttered Nile, then gave a nod to show she’d understood.

Booker didn’t think she did yet, not fully, but he had done all he could for now. He went back up the stairs with her following.

When they reached the kitchen again, Nicky had lifted his legs to rest his feet in Joe’s lap, and Joe was idly rubbing his ankles. Booker sighed to himself and made sure to pour himself and Nile the largest glasses of wine.

****

“It’s his eyes,” said Joe, dreamily, staring up at the ceiling of the dingy Montmartre bar Booker had found for them. “They are the stars that guide me, the only light I’ll ever need in darkness.”

“Do you want to go to the Moulin Rouge?” Booker asked, rather desperately. He’d been immortal for a few decades but had only started travelling with the others in the last few years, after the death of his youngest son. He’d thought that it would be nice to drink with company for a change, perhaps try and bond with the team a little beyond just fighting together. 

He was rapidly realising that he had been very wrong.

Perhaps the way Andy had reacted when he’d said Joe was coming tonight but Nicky wasn’t should have enlightened him. Her widened eyes and firm announcement that she’d stay in the safehouse and sharpen her axe instead should have been a clue that Booker was making a mistake, but he was still young compared to the rest of them. He was still learning.

Joe didn’t even acknowledge the question. He reached for the bottle that was on the table between them and which Booker had naively thought he’d drink most of, and topped up his glass. 

“They are the blue of the sea that separated our homes when we were mortals,” he said, taking another gulp. “And which brought us both to Jerusalem so we could meet.” He blinked and then focused his gaze on Booker, leaning forward as if he were about to ask an extremely important question. “Did you see his new jacket?”

“Yeah,” said Booker tiredly, giving up. He grabbed the bottle and emptied the last of it into his glass. “The green one.”

“It makes his inner beauty shine like a jewel,” said Joe. “I could happily gaze upon his face for an eternity and still find new things to love about it.”

“You’ll probably have an eternity,” said Booker, and then realised what that meant. He was going to live for thousands of years, and the whole time he’d be subjected to listening to Joe pine.

“An eternity with my Nicky could not be long enough,” said Joe, then let out a sigh that almost sounded like a sob. “Oh, that he could only find it in himself to love me back.” He dropped his head to rest on the table for a moment. “An eternity, and I will only have tasted his lips once.”

Even Booker was not so hardhearted as to ignore that. He patted gently at Joe’s curls. “Once is better than never.”

Joe let out a very deep breath then raised his head. “It was a perfect moment,” he said. “The single most perfect moment of my life. And then he pulled away and told me he didn’t feel the same, and my heart cracked into pieces.” To Booker’s alarm, he realised tears were forming in Joe’s eyes. “Cracked all the way through, and yet every time I look at his eyes it is made new, and every time I remember he is not mine, it shatters all over again. For nearly eight hundred years, it has broken and remade itself a hundred times a day.”

“You still have him, though,” said Booker, thinking of his wife’s eyes, which had been brown. He was starting to forget the details of them already. In eight hundred years, would he even remember what colour they had been? “You both have each other.”

“Yes,” said Joe, with a sigh. “My Nicky. My brother, the other half of my soul, my heart. I have been blessed by Allah to live a thousand years with him. To want more is greedy, I know this.” He stared down into his glass. “I cannot help but be greedy, though,” he said, and took another sip. “I cannot help but wish I could have more. It is the way of humanity.”

“Yes,” agreed Booker. He thought about how he had been given what so many would consider a gift, and yet after only a few decades all he wanted was to hand it back. “We always want something other than what we have.”

“I’ll drink to that, brother,” said Joe, holding his glass out, and Booker tapped his own glass against it in a toast. He made another, silent vow to himself, that he’d never get drunk alone with Joe again.

It was not one he was able to keep.

****

Yusuf had fallen in love with Nicolo when his eyes first fell on him, even if it had taken him a few deaths to realise that was what this all-encompassing emotion was.

Once they’d agreed to a truce and set off away from the blood-stained disaster that Jerusalem had become together, it took very little time for Yusuf to realise exactly what the leap of joy in his chest at the sight of Nicolo’s tiny, quirked smile was.

They walked across the sun-scorched earth, learning to talk to each other, and every fumbled word from Nicolo’s lips made Yusuf fall deeper. By the time they’d reached a town far enough from the clash of their armies to offer shelter, it felt as if he would drown in the love he felt and then be reborn, just as he had been reborn every time Nicolo had struck him down.

They took a room in an inn. They shared a bath, and then a bed, and it was all Yusuf could do not to reach out and pull Nicolo into his arms so they could share so much more.

He couldn’t be sure that Nicolo would welcome it, but he couldn’t be sure he wouldn’t either. There was a look in Nicolo’s eyes when he looked at Yusuf, a lightness to his laugh whenever Yusuf made him laugh, that made his heart lift because _maybe, just maybe…_

It was too early to be sure though, and Yusuf wouldn’t, couldn’t risk destroying this fragile thing they’d built between them. He was all too aware of just how easy it would be to lose Nicolo, for him to disappear into the world and leave Yusuf to wander alone for however long this gift of immortality lasted.

It would not be a gift then; it would be a curse.

“Are you sleeping?” asked Nicolo as they lay side by side that night. They were using Greek to communicate, but neither of them were particularly fluent. Yusuf was trying to learn Nicolo’s native language so that he could understand the beautiful flow of fluent words that fell from his lips when he spoke to himself, but he was a long way from being able to converse in it.

“Not yet,” he replied.

Nicolo turned on his side to look at Yusuf, the moonlight outside the window silhouetting the shape of his body. “The battle is behind us,” he said. “Where are you going to go?”

Yusuf didn’t need to search for an answer. His family thought him dead, and he had not seen them in long years anyway. The army he had fought with were dead or scattered, and he had no stomach to continue to fight in any case. “Wherever you go.”

Nicolo was silent for long minutes, and Yusuf wondered if he had spoken too honestly, or if Nicolo had fallen asleep. Eventually though, Nicolo reached out to touch the back of Yusuf’s hand with his fingers. “I don’t know where that will be. We will decide together.”

Yusuf couldn’t keep in a grin, turning his hand over to take Nicolo’s fingers in his and squeeze them tightly. “Wherever we are together will be home to me,” he said in his own language, letting his heart spill out when he knew Nicky couldn’t understand it before adding, in Greek, “The world is ours.”

Nicolo let out one of his quiet laughs and squeezed back, and they fell asleep like that, still holding hands.

When Yusuf woke in the morning, he had rolled to wrap himself around Nicolo, holding him close to his chest where he could feel every breath as he took it. He held still, sure that Nicolo must still be asleep if he hadn’t moved, then there was a gentle pat on his hand.

“Constantinople,” Nicolo said. “Let our travels start there.”

He wasn’t pulling away from Yusuf’s possessive hold, he wasn’t even tensing up. He lay as relaxed and easy in Yusuf’s arms as if they had been lovers for many years. The hope Yusuf had been stocking for later leapt up in his chest, sharp and fervent, and he could not stop himself from raising up to look down at Nicolo, at the sleepy smile he aimed at Yusuf.

“Constantinople,” agreed Yusuf and then, because there was not a single part of him with the strength to hold back, he bent his head and pressed a kiss to Nicolo’s lips. They were as warm and soft as he had dreamed and for a single, perfect moment, he had everything he had ever wanted.

And then Nicolo pushed him away.

“No,” he said in his own language, one of the few words Yusuf knew. “No, Yusuf.”

Yusuf pulled away, sitting back as his heart froze in his chest. “I thought….” he started in Greek, and then found himself without the words for what he had thought. He had thought that anything that felt this much like destiny had to be real. He had thought that the way his heart glowed in his chest when he was around Nicolo couldn’t be unreciprocated. He had thought that this was the start of everything he had ever dreamed of.

Nicolo shook his head, sitting up and scrubbing his hands over his face. “No,” he said again, switching to Greek. “Yusuf, it’s not- I don’t do such things. I have never wanted to.”

The pain in Yusuf’s chest felt as if it would kill him with far more certainty than the many times Nicolo had run him through with his sword. “I see,” he said, and then added, “I’m sorry,” because he had taken something from Nicolo that he hadn’t wanted to give.

“We will be friends,” said Nicolo, and there was a note of pleading in his voice, as if he thought there was a chance Yusuf wouldn’t give him exactly what he wanted, even if it wasn’t everything that Yusuf wanted.

He forced himself to nod. “Friends,” he agreed, and the relief on Nicolo’s face felt as if it would end him.

They would be friends, then. Yusuf would bury his feelings deep and never burden Nicolo with them again, and keep this man by his side in whatever way he wanted to be there. He would be able to find other people to kiss, or to spend a night or two with, but Nicolo was the only one he wanted to spend his life with. If that mean restraining himself to friendship, then he would gladly do it to spend every day at Nicolo’s side.

He found a smile, running a hand through his hair. “Constantinople,” he said. “We will need supplies.”

Nicolo smiled back, and Yusuf thought that as long as he still got to see such a beautiful sight every day, he could survive the loss of his hope for more.

****

Nicky wasn’t waking up.

They had both been gassed at the same time, why had Joe woken before him? Why was Nicky still silent and pale?

Joe’s heart was in his throat as he shifted forward in his seat, reaching out for Nicky with his cuffed hands.

“Nicolo.”

“Quiet,” snapped one of the men in the van with them, but Joe had no energy to care about him, not when Nicky was lying there not moving.

“Nicolo, wake up,” he said, slipping into Italian without really intending to.

“I said-” started the guard again, and Joe gave him a look filled with all the disgust he felt for a man who would hurt Nicky.

“I know what you said,” he said, switching back to English. “What are you going to do? Kill me?” The guard didn’t seem to have a response to that, so Joe turned back to Nicky, reaching out for him again. “Wake up. Wake up! Nicolo, please.”

“I told you, shut up!” snapped the guard.

“I need to know he’s okay,” said Joe, because it was the only thing he could think about, the fear in his chest rising up to engulf him as Nicky continued lying there, so still and pale.

“That’s sweet,” said the guard in a mocking tone. “What is he? Your boyfriend?”

The other soldiers laughed, as if such a thing would be funny rather than the dearest wish of Joe’s heart, and he felt himself snap.

“You’re a child. An infant. Your mocking is thus infantile,” he told the guard, and the amusement was wiped off his face.

“He’s not my boyfriend, but such a thing would be an honour beyond speaking. This man is more to me than you can dream. He’s the moon when I’m lost in darkness and warmth when I shiver in cold. His heart overflows with the kindness of which this world is not worthy of. I love this man beyond measure and reason. He’s not my boyfriend, he’s the other half of me, he is all that matters and more.”

There was a faint gasp and Joe turned to see that Nicky had finally - _finally_ \- opened his eyes, and was struggling to sit up. “An honour beyond speaking?” he repeated. “Joe-”

Joe fell off the seat to his knees in his desperation to reach out for Nicky. “Nicolo,” he said, relief flooding through him. “You weren’t waking up.”

Nicky reached out his own cuffed hands and just held Joe’s for a moment. “I’m awake now,” he said softly, in the old Greek they had first spoken to each other in. “Yusuf, my poet, did you mean all that?”

Joe clasped tighter at Nicky’s hands. Centuries of keeping his feelings locked up around Nicky so that he wouldn’t feel uncomfortable, ruined by these idiots. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I know it is not the same for you, but I could not let his mockery stand.”

Nicky started to shake his head but before he could respond, they were both grabbed and pulled away from each other.

“I said, shut up,” hissed the guard.

It was enough. Joe caught Nicky’s eye and knew he was thinking the same thing, because he may only have tasted his beloved’s lips once in all their long years together, but they had shared the same thoughts more times than Joe could count.

They moved at the same moment, taking down every guard within a handful of minutes, before most of them had even realised what was happening. Joe searched the bodies for keys to the cuffs, or even the truck itself, but they had not been foolish enough to leave those in with them.

He sat back down on the bench, catching Nicky’s eye and offering a shrug. “At least we can talk without interruptions now.”

“Yes,” agreed Nicky, settling on the floor at his feet. “I think we have some important things to say.”

Joe let out a sigh because he had been hoping that the fight would sweep away the awkward moment before it, but it seemed Nicky was determined to drag this out. 

“We are friends,” he said, remembering that long ago conversation before they visited Constantinople. “More than that, you are my brother. There is nothing more to say.”

Not once in nine hundred years had Nicky ever shown a desire for more than friendship, not from Joe and not from anyone else. His eyes had never once lingered on a beautiful face or well-shaped figure. When he had said that he didn’t do such things as kissing, he had been completely truthful, and Joe had no interest in pursuing what he didn’t want to give. Not when he had so much more of Nicky than anyone else would ever have, when he slept with Nicky in his arms and lived with Nicky by his side. 

“That is what you want, and it is the greatest honour of my long life to call you such,” he added. “I wouldn’t ever ask for more.”

Nicky was silent for a moment, eyes darting across Joe’s face, and Joe tried to let his sincerity shine from it. When he finally spoke, in a low, rough voice, his words made Joe’s breath catch in his throat. 

“And if I asked for more?”

****

When Nicolo had been a boy, he had listened to how his older brother talked about women, about their lips and breasts and hips, and hadn’t understood.

His brother had just laughed and ruffled his hair, telling him he’d get it when he was older, but he never had.

He’d watched his sisters spy on men from the window, admiring broad shoulders and bright eyes, and hadn’t understood that either.

When a few more years had passed, his friends had started to frequent brothels, or made particular friends with women of easy virtue, and he had just watched it happen and wondered why he didn’t feel the same urges. The way they talked about the acts they engaged in just made him feel uncomfortable, especially when he considered doing them with a woman he’d only just met, whose real name he might not even know.

One of his friends took him to a boy he knew who would offer the same acts, for a price, but Nicolo wasn’t any more interested in that than he had been the women.

His friends teased him for his virtue and his pure heart, calling him ‘Saint Nicolo’. He rolled his eyes at them but it felt as if they might have a point. God had created him without those urges that everyone else seemed to be a slave to. Perhaps he had intended Nicolo for another purpose.

He went to his father and told him that he felt drawn to the church and his father, who had brought him up to be a soldier, sighed but let him go to the seminary instead.

If Nicolo had thought he would fit in better there, he soon found he was mistaken. Purity of body and mind was something that they were all taught was a struggle, but Nicolo never faced the same temptations as his brothers did, and which many of them succumbed to and then asked to be absolved of.

When the Pope called for a crusade against the infidels who had control of the holy city, Nicolo thought about the wife he’d never wanted and the children he wouldn’t have and wondered if his life’s purpose was destined to be different. To be a small part of a far larger victory.

He went to his bishop and asked leave to break his vows and take up a sword in defence of their faith and, just as his father had, his bishop reluctantly let him follow his heart.

He followed his heart again at the gates of Jerusalem, setting down his sword and following the enemy he hadn’t been able to kill away from the battlefield. That time, he didn’t ask anyone’s permission.

His enemy became his companion, became his friend, became closer than a brother. They travelled to Constantinople and lived there for several years, and then left to travel east in search of the women they both dreamed of.

It was only then that Nicolo finally tasted the urges that everyone else had spoken of, and truly understood just want it meant to desire someone.

They were at a small lake in the mountains and Yusuf had stripped off his clothes to bathe, wading into the cold water with a shout that echoed across the valley and then ducking down to submerge himself. Nicolo had felt a burst of affection for him, for the way he always faced things head on, and was so loud and open with his reactions. Nicolo never had to fear games or falsehoods with Yusuf, he was always exactly as he presented himself to be.

When Yusuf came up, water rushed from his damp curls over the strong curves of his shoulders, down the line of his spine to his buttocks, Nicolo found himself captivated by the sight in a way he never had been before.

_He’s beautiful,_ he realised, and for the first time he didn’t just mean it objectively. Yusuf was the most beautiful thing Nicolo had ever seen, and he wanted to be as near to that beauty as he could be. He wanted to run his fingers over him, trace the path of the water and feel the warm texture of his skin. He wanted to press close and feel the shape of Yusuf’s body against his, all the ways they’d fit together. 

_He wanted._ A long pull deep in his belly, like nothing he’d felt before.

Yusuf glanced over his shoulder at where Nicolo was frozen on the bank and waved an arm.

“Come on! It’s not that cold,” he called, and Nicolo could see the sparkle of his eyes and wanted to touch his hand to the curve of his cheek. He wanted to lean in close and press their lips together.

Yusuf had kissed him once, years ago when they’d barely known each other. Nicolo had reacted as he always did when someone showed that kind of interest in him, with denials and a half-hearted attempt at explaining what he didn’t fully understand himself. Yusuf had nodded and moved away, and never brought it up again. Nicolo had been grateful for that.

Yusuf had kissed other people since then, and done rather more with some of them. Nicolo had seen him often enough, talking to a woman who couldn’t help but laugh at his jokes, or quietly slipping away with a man, walking just a little too close. It hadn’t meant anything to Nicolo then, other than a vague sense of relief that the kiss they had shared must not have meant much to Yusuf if he gave his kisses away so freely, and so it would not make things awkward between them.

How would Yusuf react now if he knew Nicolo wanted what he had rejected before?

“Do not think you are getting out of bathing,” called Yusuf. “You stink of horse.”

Nicolo rolled his eyes and forced himself to walk into the lake. “We both stink of horse,” he pointed out, “and will continue to do so for many months, if we keep travelling as we have been.”

Yusuf shrugged at him, his body moving so gracefully that Nicolo couldn’t believe that he had never noticed the beauty of it before. “We will have this one night free of it at least.”

“Apart from our clothes, and our blankets, and our horses themselves,” started Nicolo, and was rewarded by a splash of cold water. He just laughed, pushing away the want and hoping it was just a strange anomaly. They were settled together as they were and there was no sense in upsetting that.

But the feelings didn’t go away. Over the next few days, Nicolo found himself being caught by the sight of Yusuf more and more, imagining more ways to touch him. It was cold at night and they slept side-by-side for warmth, which usually translated into Yusuf holding Nicolo in his arms by morning. Nicolo would wake up surrounded by him and wonder what it would be like to press back into his body and feel the hard line of an erection, or even just to roll over and wake him with a kiss.

Would Yusuf welcome it, as he would have if Nicolo had returned his kiss all that time ago? Or had that moment been a flash in the pan, and he wouldn’t want to change the way they’d been together all these years?

It was several more nights before Nicolo plucked up the courage to try and ask. They lay down to sleep and, rather than pretend that they would each have their own space, Yusuf settled in close behind Nicolo from the start, wrapping an arm around his waist.

“All right?” he asked quietly.

“Yes,” said Nicolo, pressing back into his warmth.

Yusuf made a satisfied, humming noise in his throat, then settled to go to sleep.

Nicolo stared at the dying embers of their fire and thought of lying like this every night for the rest of their lives, for decades or centuries, or however long they had together. The want that had settled into his stomach and never left surged up, filling his chest with a burning feeling that he had to take a deep breath to press down.

“Yusuf, you know how important to me you are, don’t you?” he said in a low voice, not even sure if he wanted Yusuf to be awake to hear this. “I’ve never known a companion like you. It feels as if you must be the other half of my soul.”

Yusuf’s arm tightened around his waist for a moment. “I know,” he said, just as softly. “It is the same for me, I promise.” He hesitated, and then added, “Nothing is more important to me than being your brother.”

Brother. Nicolo let out a quiet sigh, feeling the disappointment roll through him. There could not be a clearer signal that Yusuf no longer wanted him the way that he once had.

Yusuf tucked his face in close to Nicolo’s neck. “Go to sleep,” he muttered. “We should leave these mountains tomorrow.”

Nicolo nodded and let his eyes fall shut. He had had his chance for more than friendship with Yusuf but it had come before he was ready, and now there wouldn’t be another. These new desires would have to be put aside and ignored. 

At least he had had plenty of experience with leading a wholly platonic life.

****

“And if I were the one to ask for more?” asked Nicky, and it felt like the most dangerous thing he had ever done, like juggling with fire or walking through a whirlwind.

Joe just stared at him for several achingly long seconds. “Don’t,” he said. “Nicolo, you don’t need to offer this, I would never want anything from you that you were not happy to give.”

That wasn’t a no. In fact, it as good as sounded like a yes, if Nicky could break past Joe’s assumptions. “I would be happy to give you anything you asked for,” said Nicky, shifting to his knees so he could rest his cuffed hands on one of Joe’s knees.

“You don’t want it,” said Joe, resting his hands over Nicky’s. “Nicky, my heart. I have known you for nearly a thousand years, and not once have you ever wanted such things. Kisses and touches and-” He cut himself off and shook his head. “You don’t want them. Not from anyone.”

“I want them from you,” said Nicky, feeling his heart in his throat. “You’re the only person I have ever wanted them with, but I thought I’d missed my chance, I thought it had taken me too long to see that I wanted them. If you still want me like that, then please, Joe.” He switched to Greek, to the language they’d used when they’d had that very first conversation about this. “Yusuf, my love, my heart. Don’t let us miss this chance as well.”

“Nicolo,” breathed Yusuf, and shifted forward off the seat and onto his knees so that he was pressed close to Nicky. “You may have all the chances you want with me. Please, whatever you want, if you truly want it. Don’t you know I want everything from you, as long as you are willing to give it?”

Nicky couldn’t wait any longer. He surged forward and caught Joe’s mouth with his own, kissing him with all 900 years of desperate, pent-up emotion.

It was clumsy and awkward, with the van still moving and their hands cuffed, and Nicky knew his lack of experience was showing, but Joe let out a moan as if it were the greatest thing he’d ever felt and pressed closer, angling his head and deepening the kiss until it was all Nicky could think about. Every nerve in his body was lighting up with the sensation of having Joe here, like this, of finally getting the second kiss he’d wanted for so long.

“Oh, my love,” said Joe when they pulled apart, resting his forehead against Nicky’s. “I would have waited another thousand years to taste the perfection of your lips.”

“I am very glad you don’t have to,” said Nicky, and kissed him again, elation burning through his whole body.

Which, of course, was when the van doors flew open and they had to go back to being kidnap victims for a while.

****

It was less than a month into Booker’s exile that he got the message. He was slumped on the sofa of his apartment, staring at the empty bottles on the table and trying to convince himself that today he’d do something other than go to the shop on the corner and replace them with full ones.

His phone beeped, and then beeped again, and he roused himself to go and pick it up, expecting spam texts.

He wasn’t even sure why he was keeping it charged and on, given that the only people who had the number weren’t going to contact him for a century, by which time the phone would be long dead.

But Booker would still be horribly, unrelentingly alive.

He didn’t recognise the number but it only took the first message for him to realise it wasn’t spam and to recognise who it was from.

_Remember when you told me not to get drunk alone with Joe because of the lovelorn poetry?_

_I hope you didn’t think that them getting together would put an end to that, because it’s actually just so much worse. The poetry is now 24/7, no alcohol needed._

There was an audio file after that and Booker clicked on it without hesitation.

Joe’s voice chimed in, clearly halfway through a sentence as the recording started. “-stare into your eyes for the rest of our days, and not need any other sight.”

“Joe,” said Nicky, but he sounded charmed rather than irritated, which clearly only provoked Joe to continue.

“My Nicky,” said Joe, with a happy sigh, and then slipped into an old Italian dialect that, unfortunately, Booker understood. “Nicolo, my own, my heart, my soul. My light in the darkness, my warmth in the cold, my shelter in the wilderness.”

“Do you have to do this at lunch?” asked Andy’s voice, sounding tired. 

“I am inspired by the beauty of my love at all times,” said Joe, and the cheerfulness just radiated out of his voice. Booker could picture the exact smug grin on his face.

“Can’t you be inspired quietly?” tried Andy.

“No,” said Joe.

“You incurable romantic,” said Nicky, all too fondly, and there was the unmistakable sound of a long, involved kiss.

A chair scraped against a floor and there were a couple of footsteps, then the sounds dimmed as if a door had been shut.

“You see what kinda shit I’m putting up with?” said Nile’s voice, close to the speaker. “And that’s without even mentioning just how loudly they fuck, and how thin all the walls of these safehouses are. Seriously, Booker, I’m starting to consider joining your exile.”

The audio file ended and Booker found he was smiling for the first time in days. Hearing the voices of his family, and remembering just how they used to irritate the absolute fuck out of him, was as good as a tonic.

Perhaps this exile wouldn’t be such a bad thing. The honeymoon period would have to be ended after a hundred years, right?

Nearly a hundred years later, less than an hour after the end of his exile, he stood on a beach watching Nicky slide his arms around Joe's waist and pull him back against his chest, and realised just how wrong he'd been.


End file.
